Monday, June 17, 2013

Cul-de-Sac and Clarkson Close (for the viXra log debate forum)

Cul-de-Sac and Clarkson Close  (for the viXra log  debate forum)

L. Edgar Otto   June 17, 2013

Consider this pattern, symbolic, observable, predictive, mind bending without meds if we rise above the cul-de-sac we naturally live in  (if we can play nicely).  Were we not once young men who at the tea of the old men (myself and Fred Hoyle who said in October 1st is Too Late perhaps some young person most likely serving now in England will find ways out or answers)... does that change along with the dead ends and loops or round'a'bouts?

What is in the symmetry and heart of it all that so many now find hauntingly similar in the spirit of it (or for that matter a new generation of which we today are late but now are defined as a part of it (born again for me leaped into the new century with all the memories of the last created anew after the vanished millennium) but these deeper questions of fractals, strings, dark and creative discrete relativity just shy of mirrors and singularity?  The honest work of Hogg in quiet research to mine the clearer pictures in the data from deep sky?  Can we not see here the insights of Leo, or of Matti?  Does this not converge, as said the sprouting violets of independent non-Euclidean development, perhaps Pierre and crystal classification then the others arise from one root source?

As Gibbs the new age of bits, information a primary consideration. Maybe the geeks with their sense of humor, shallow sit com puns not as deep of humor healing our whistles in the dark as we try to see ourselves truly in the mirror.  Nature not to remain seen as all mystery or a joke.

Evidence this ennui and stagnation, disappointment as the hiatus in the game so unfulfilled our anticipation (that cannot rest once set in motion as it exhausts us to care then to take new effort to move or explain really the mass therein for now... between each other in our social gravity that longs as much for poetry and not anodyne's where thinking, sorrow, or just plain living is a pain.

You have done well in your cup and hour, that best of canvasses given but one to paint... You all have honored we imperfect monkeys standing together we find our wings we may not see save in future legends while in our cores inside we wonder of the gods who loaded the dice, some magus, magicians choice, cosmic gravity its wake left as riddles as they walked away.

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